My father made no answer, but we were loud in protest.
"He must bring it. It's not big enough to live by itself. It would die." we shouted.
"Yes, and it will die now. And then there'll be another outcry."
My mother set her face against the tragedy of dead pets. Our hearts sank.
"It won't die, Father, will it? Why will it? It won't."
"I should think not," said my father. "You know well enoughit will. Haven,t we had it all before!" said my mother. "They don't always pine"replied my father testily.

But my mother reminded him of other little wild animals he had brought, which had sulked and refused to live, and brought storms of tears and trouble in our house of lunatics.

Trouble fell on us. The little rabbit sat on our lap, unmoving, its eyes wide and dark. We brought it milk, warm milk, and held it to its nose. It sat as still as if it was far away, retreated down some deep burrow, hidden oblivious. We wetted its mouth and whiskers with drops of milk. It gave no sign, did not even shake off the wet white drops. Somebody began to shed a few secret tears.

"What did I say?" cried my mother. "Take it and put it down in the field."

1991. The opposition to bring the rabbit was from

1992. The common fear was that

1993. The mother remarked that the rabbit would

1994.The ragedy was

1995. The mother ordered

TOTAL

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